


The Devil You Know

by CosmosisJane



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fantasy, Gen, Horror, Multiverse, No Romance, Not Beta Read, Roman Catholicism, Science Fiction, Still a better love story than Twilight, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 19:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13060335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmosisJane/pseuds/CosmosisJane
Summary: A nun, bound to a demon since childhood, is the greatest of the Vatican’s weapons in their thousand-year war against the invading armies of Hell.Sister Peter Therasia thought she understood her world better than most. She’s a skeptic, a student of science, and knows the world beyond the border is just another place; strange but not supernatural.She is about to learn how ignorant she really is - and how quickly she uncovers the whole truth will determine the fate of both worlds.





	The Devil You Know

  
Sister Peter Therasia stood at the border between two worlds, looked down to her left and frowned at the bright splash of blood that marked the trail of her quarry. She had hoped to catch the _messorem_ long before this. Now she would have to cross over and track it in unfamiliar territory. It was impossible to predict where one would end up on the other side. The geography was temperamental, to say the least.  
  
“Damnation,” she swore and dropped her pack onto the ground.  
  
Peter and her companion were only a few hours outside the nearest town, on the outskirts of a hamlet the locals called Ciupercenii Noi. It did not appear on any map the nun had ever studied, but the Vatican’s cartographers would add it soon now that the anomaly had shifted, butting up against the western edge of the tiny village. The Empire would have troops stationed here within the week to keep watch until the phenomenon moved or vanished entirely. That might be days or years from now – there was no way to calculate how long it would linger before relocating – but Ciupercenii Noi would never again be regarded as an inconsequential backwater. Peter wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing for the people who lived there. Likely a little of both.  
  
Hands on her hips, Peter considered this newest manifestation. She could see the landscape stretching out in front of her exactly as it ought to be; the trees swayed in the afternoon breeze, scrubby undergrowth rustled as small-but-unseen animals ventured out to forage, birds sang – everything appeared normal. But she knew instinctively that if she should take a single step forward, she would find herself in an entirely different place, one so foreign that her mind had a difficult time making sense of it. Even now, after hundreds of crossings, she found the world on the other side disconcerting, uncomfortable in a way that felt deliberate, as if the place itself was ensuring that she knew she was unwelcome.  
  
The man behind her shifted in his saddle, his mount restless. “Sister,” he said, urging his horse forward despite the animal’s agitation at being brought so close to the border. “Why do we hesitate here? The demon will fly to its den and we shall lose it.”  
  
“This is not an excursion on one of your estates,” Peter warned. “We are not hunting boar or tiger.”  
  
Sir Ivaylo – recently knighted and far too young for the honor by Peter’s estimation – had been foisted on her by the local bishop. There had been some implied relation between the two; cousins, perhaps, and as far as her superior was concerned, that alone had made the youth qualified, essential even, for this mission.  
  
She would have to take care to return him to his family alive and preferably unharmed. She could not guarantee the latter, of course, but Bishop Mitkov knew that. Probably.  
  
“With all due respect, Sister –”  
  
“You have never been on the other side, Sir, and there is not enough time to properly prepare you, so instead you will make a most solemn vow to do as I say, when I say to do it. Swear to do so, then dismount and remove your armor. Leave your weapons as well. Nothing metal may cross and your horse will refuse. They always do.”  
  
“Nothing metal –? A _vow_ —?” he stuttered.  
  
“Quickly.”  
  
To his credit, Ivaylo managed to climb down from his horse unassisted. They were without the attendants he was accustomed to and Peter didn’t like getting that close to a skittish courser, especially one trained to war.  
  
“What words would you require of me?” he asked as he tipped his head forward to pull off his helm – a heavy Italian _barbuta_ that had become popular recently in this part of the Empire. Prior to the campaign here, Peter had only seen such pieces in Rome’s museums, though those had been ancient things of bronze with crimson horse-hair crests.  
  
She waved her hand dismissively. “This is not a rite, Sir. Any words will do, but swear them on your family’s honor.”  
  
“I swear them to Christ and God Almighty,” he puffed. “On the gentle heart of the Virgin Mary. I am yours to command, Sister.”  
  
Peter resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the young man’s earnest piety, and instead made all the motions he would expect from an anointed nun. He smiled and continued to strip his armor and mail, tying them carefully where he could to his horse’s saddle and wrapping what would not fit in a blanket pulled from his bed roll. They would be safe enough on the ground, for not even the most desperate thief would venture this close to the border.  
  
Finally free of helm, gorget, spaulders, and plated brigandine, he hitched the liver-colored courser to a fallen tree nearby, opened a small bag of feed and spilled the mix of grain and truck within easy reach.  
  
Satisfied that both the animal and his belongings were secured, Ivaylo stood in his plain, sweat-stained gambeson and chausses, a rosy blush spreading across his nose and cheeks.  
  
_He must feel naked_ , Peter thought, _and not unlike a chicken plucked of its feathers._  
  
“What can I use to defend us on the other side if not my broadsword, Sister?” he asked, unable to bring himself to look her in the eye. “Surely we will not be reduced to flinging rocks and curses at our foes.”  
  
“Hardwood, bone, or ivory for edged weapons,” she said, then produced an arming sword made of gleaming ebony from her pack, the pommel a perfectly round wheel of ivory. She passed it to him so he could test the balance. “I’m afraid I do not carry anything larger than a side sword.”  
  
She strapped her own bone-and-mahogany _cinquedea_ horizontally to the small of her back so she could draw it laterally if pressed into a narrow space. The long dagger was an ugly bit of work; a brutal stabbing weapon in the shape of a severe triangle, the base a ridiculous five fingers thick where it met the half-moon guard. Its utility, however, outweighed any lack of aesthetic appeal; a single thrust into enemy flesh dealt massive, often lethal, damage. A pair of matched Greek _kopis_ that she could wield together rested against either hip, blades bare and carved from ironwood brought all the way to Rome by ambassadors out of Tenochtitlan.  
  
Ivaylo stepped away from her to work through several stances and fighting forms, his face a stern mask of concentration. His cheeks were still full and round, childlike, though Peter could see that once the last stubborn traces of boyhood melted away, he would be considered handsome by most. A scar or two and a heroic tale earned today would make him quite the desirable little lord, indeed. She tried not to resent him for it.  
  
“The creature we’re hunting,” she said once he returned to her side. “Is a _messorem_ , a reaper. They’re fast-moving scouts; consider them a type of infantry analog. After the battle at Vidin, it was probably separated from the rest of its cohort and found the village near Calafat when it crossed the river. Taking the children was done impulsively. Perhaps it believes it can offer them as a gift to its commander and avoid punishment for getting lost.”  
  
“It cannot have them,” Ivaylo spat. “Their souls belong to God.”  
  
Peter shook her head. “Forget, for now, everything you think you know about them, Sir. Forget the stories Mitkov has told you. Forget _Revelations_ , the Fall, the war between Heaven and Hell, put the image of a goat-horned Devil out of your mind. None of that is relevant here, and less so there.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” he said. His pale blue eyes were wide, searching hers for reassurance, his brows knitted together. She regretted having to do this to him, but if he wanted to survive he needed to rid himself of such foolish notions. “The Holy Father himself – “  
  
“Is not here,” Peter cut him off. “And has never been on the other side. I have. It is not pits of fire that wait for us, nor fallen angels lusting for your immortal soul.”  
  
“Then what?” he asked, and for the first time, Peter recognized true fear in him, could hear it in his voice.  
  
She faced the invisible border, knowing it was there without knowing how. No one did, but the sensation was the same for anyone stupid or brave enough to get this close; a trembling through your breast, the sudden _THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!_ of your heart, and the sound of the ocean rising in your ears. The urge to flee as far and as fast as one could in the opposite direction would rise in your throat as urgent and acrid as bile.  
  
Peter crossed herself, more out of habit than superstitious belief. “Something worse, my son,” she said. “If only because it is real.”

 

* * *

 

  
  
The landscape beyond the border stretched on into the far distant horizon; an endless beach of gritty sand, dotted here and there with larger boulders of compacted sediment. Nothing that resembled plants could be seen in the dim gray light, and no sun or moon hung overhead to mark the passage of time. Without any shadows to provide definition, everything appeared flat, and Peter’s eyes struggled to gauge distance or direction without the expected cues to assist. Darkness moved at the edges of her sightline like a living thing, obscuring her peripheral vision. The sky seemed low somehow, as if she were walking through a room with barely a fingerswidth between the crown of her head and the ceiling. She had to actively resist the urge to stoop.  
  
“So,” Ivaylo said, easily keeping pace with Peter as they followed the reaper’s trail. “They are animals. Not demons?”  
  
“’Demon’ has become the commonly accepted terminology, even among those who know better,” Peter said, wishing not for the first time that fire translated across the boundary. They could do with some light. As it was, she had to stop continuously, crouching with her nose just above the ground, searching for the next trail sign lest they get lost in the dark of this unknown country. “And I would not reduce them to mere beasts, either. Some are as cunning and articulate as the Sultan’s own viziers. Others less so. The stupid ones tend to be the most dangerous.”  
  
She found the next pug mark in the sandy soil, the strange shape of the reaper’s feet making a series of steep, conical divots, as if several spikes had been driven into the ground with great force and then pulled free. When she stood, Ivaylo was staring into the darkness behind them, one hand resting on the ivory pommel of his sword.  
  
“Something follows,” he said, voice hushed. He moved to stand between Peter and the perceived threat, his body a shield.  
  
“Many somethings,” Peter answered with a shrug. “They have been on our heels for some time now.”  
  
“What are they?”  
  
She laughed quietly. “Demons, naturally.”  
  
He looked back at her, a frown twisting his mouth with displeasure at her levity. Something chittered in the distance, and a distinctly inhuman voice answered, a low wail that made even Peter’s skin crawl all the way up to her scalp. Ivaylo inhaled sharply through his nose and pulled his sword free from its leather scabbard.  
  
“They will not attack so long as we stay on our feet,” Peter whispered, reaching out with a hand to press her fingers gently on the young knight’s sword arm. “Even in a pack as large as this one, _draconum_ will not risk a battle they are not sure they can win.”  
  
“I will guard your back, Sister,” he said, nodding at her, his face gray and strangely smooth in the dark. “Let us find the reaper and leave its carcass as a message for these jackals. Our people are not theirs to take and we are not rabbits for the pot.”  
  
“Stay close,” she answered, once more taking up the trail. “I have not spotted any drag marks since we left Smardan earlier this morning. The reaper has been carrying the children for a long time, long enough for their wounds to stop bleeding. It will be tired by now. We should catch up to it well within the hour.”  
  
“Good,” Ivaylo said from just behind her before falling silent, saving his breath and concentrating on what lay ahead. He was handling himself well, all things considered. Peter admitted to herself that she had underestimated the knight; she would need to make sure her report of their mission was generous where his actions were concerned. A small sort of recompense she could easily provide without actually having to apologize to the man himself.  
  
**_Pride_** , a voice in her head mocked, laughter rippling through her mind like an eel just below the surface of the water. **_Truly,_ venandi _, you are a hypocrite of the worst kind._**  
  
Peter ignored the voice – she had no use for its owner yet, and paying him any attention before she required his services would bring him more entertainment and pleasure than she cared to think about. Perhaps she would not need to call for him at all. She had killed _messorem_ without assistance before.  
  
“There!” Ivaylo called, pointing with his free hand. He brought his sword up over his head, slightly to the outside, the point of the blade aimed forward. Peter strained to see what he had spotted and opened her mouth to command him to slow down, to wait but a moment so they could be sure they held the advantage in their final approach. He needed to be quiet –  
  
“Za Bog, za Rim!” he bellowed in his own tongue, just before the reaper turned its grotesque head and smiled at the sight of him.

* * *

  
Blood streamed from the empty socket where Ivaylo’s pretty blue eye had been moments before and his right arm hung from his shoulder, smattered with gore, clearly dislocated. He adjusted his grip on the short sword Peter had given him and calmly reset his feet. He had been trained well enough to use his off-hand when necessary, managing to block the next frenzied attack without losing too much ground.  
  
Peter had quickly realized their reaper was an old one, and crafty to boot. It had faced humans before and had won, though not without collecting its share of scars. Ivaylo had managed to cripple one of its six legs in his initial charge, but the creature had little trouble compensating for the loss. For her part, Peter had driven the _cinquedea_ hilt-deep into its flank before a well-placed kick sent her tumbling across the ground, her mouth suddenly full of blood and bitter dirt that burned her gums and tongue.  
  
Ivaylo backed toward her, never dropping his sword or turning his head from the enemy. “Can you stand?” he asked, guarding her position as best he could.  
  
_A truly glowing report_ , Peter thought. _A copy sent to the Holy See as well. Brave, foolish boy._  
  
Peter forced herself to her feet, drawing breath with great effort, feeling the resistance in her chest before her lungs finally opened back up. She nodded and pulled her _kopis_ free, rotating her wrists once, twice, to loosen the ligaments there.  
  
“Stay behind me,” she wheezed. “Stab over or around me if you can, but do not move to block.”  
  
She did not wait for him to concede to her demands; he had sworn an oath and she trusted he would honor it. Now was not the time for doubt, besides.  
  
“For God,” he answered, moving into position. “For Rome.”  
  
_Both far from this place_ , she thought, holding one of her Grecian blades forward, thre other slightly below and behind her hip, the edge facing away.  
  
“ _Venandi_ ,” the reaper cooed, the jagged slash of its mouth moving in a way that reminded her of worms writhing beneath wet earth. The pale-pink skin of its face was smeared to the left, the long slits of its nose pulled off-center, as if it had been formed of soft clay that had been cruelly twisted before setting. “Your children are dead. Leave them to me, their bones are mine.”  
  
“Liar,” she accused, lunging forward and bringing her rear blade up in a wide arc to slash its foremost leg. She sheared the end of it off, the reaper’s sharply pointed foot falling to the ground where it twitched and bled for a moment before dissolving into ash. The _messorem_ howled and scuttled back, cursing her in its own guttural language. Peter pressed the attack, determined to keep the creature on the defensive, forcing it to react to her again and again until it made a mistake.  
  
Her knives met its flesh twice more, and Ivaylo managed a devastating blow just beneath the place where its head seemed to melt into what served as a chest. He released his grip on the sword as the reaper reared back, lost its balance, and toppled to the side. It tried to drag itself away from them with the few functioning limbs it had left.  
  
Peter charged forward for the killing strike.  
  
**_More are coming, little huntress_** , the voice in her head announced. **_Call me out before they spring their trap. I would be glad to remind them of their place._**  
  
Peter screamed her frustration, looking away from the dying reaper for the first time in what seemed like ages. She ignored the rushing in her ears, the pain in her chest from where her ribs had surely cracked, and focused, trying to discern the truth of the warning.  
  
“Damnation,” she swore, slamming a foot down against one of the _messorem’s_ remaining legs before grabbing the creature by the jaw, forcing the deformed head back and exposing its throat. It made a sound like dead leaves being dragged across rough stone, breathy and labored. It was laughing at her.  
  
“You should have brought an army, _venandi_ ,” it sneered. “For ours is coming.”  
  
“Bastard,” Peter hissed before dragging one of her kopis slowly across the reaper’s neck, parting its slick, strange flesh, satisfied when the terrible black pits of its eyes crisped and shriveled before turning to ash. The rest of the body followed suit soon after.  
  
“The children,” Ivaylo reminded her, swaying on his feet. He looked ready to collapse, the ruin of his face and arm a stark reminder of how close she had come to losing him entirely. He stumbled off to the left, unsteady as a babe. Peter followed, having sighted two shapeless, child-sized lumps not far from them.  
  
“Do they live?” he asked as she crouched beside the closest form, turning the small, naked body toward her. It was the girl, Milica.  
  
“Yes,” she answered, the girl’s pulse fluttering beneath Peter’s fingers where they pressed against her slim throat.  
  
“Pass her to me,” the knight said, his sword returned to its sheath. He held out his good arm, determined, it seemed, to carry the child single-handed and unable to defend himself.  
  
_**You must choose**_ , the voice insisted. ** _The boy would be more welcome on your return, I should think. Leave the girl and at least give your young lord a chance to make it home. Attempt to rescue both of the children, and you will lose them all._**  
  
_Or_ , she thought back at him, and felt his delight at finally being acknowledged.  
  
**_Yes_** , he agreed. _**Or**_.  
  
She checked the boy for a confirmation of life before making her final decision. “Ivaylo?”  
  
“Sister,” he coughed, dropping to one knee and driving the point of his sword into the earth to steady himself.  
  
“More of the reapers are coming, many more. We cannot fight or outrun them, even if we were whole and hale. So you are about to see a thing,” she said, heart spasming beneath her breastbone as the boy, younger and smaller than his sister, whimpered in pain at her touch. “A thing that you were never meant to see.”  
  
She glanced back at the exhausted knight, already remorseful for what she was about to do. If they made it back alive, he would be summoned to Rome. To keep her secret, he would be commanded by the Vatican princes to accept a life of piety and service to God and sent to a remote monastery where vows of silence were mandatory. Not so dissimilar to what they had demanded of Peter all those years ago. It was unfair, but the life of a monk – even one stripped of rank and privilege, of every comfort and dream a man might have once held dear – was still a life.  
  
It was also their best chance.  
  
“Murmur,” she said, and felt the ground tremble beneath her hands and feet, as if the land itself were answering her summons. “ _Come_.”  
  
**_Yes_** , the monster crowed, victorious. **_I am here_**.  
  
“Mother of God,” Ivaylo prayed, looking up at the enormous shadow that seemed to split the sky, the scream of rending metal ripping through the air like a clarion call, the true voice of the creature Peter had brought to their aid. “Have mercy on us.”  
  
“Amen,” the nun agreed before closing her eyes, unwilling to watch as the terrible crowned figure materialized at her side.  
  
**_Good_** , Murmur laughed, speaking without opening his too-wide mouth, his voice echoing in her head. Judging by the way he shook at every word, Ivaylo heard him too. **_An entire cohort is coming,_ venandi _._**  
  
“These children cannot be that important,” she said, suddenly exhausted. “And I am not so infamous among your kind to believe they are coming for me. What is the game?”  
**_  
_**_**It is me they want, woman. Their prince desires my crown and I have been absent too long. They think me weak. They forget who I am.**_  
  
“I insist you make an effort to remind them,” Peter replied, struggling to her feet. The unconscious boy was balanced on her hip, his chin resting against her shoulder. She could hear the cohort approaching, the wild screams of the advance troops making her stomach twist.  
  
**_It will not take long_** , he assured her, his vicious glee bubbling like tar, infectious, until she found herself laughing with him. Murmur stretched the great length of his body, as sinuous as a Mughal jungle cat. He turned the wicked curve of his snout to the sky, as if he were scenting the air.  
  
“What are you?” Ivaylo asked, staring at him – at them – in abject horror.

 ** _Powerful_** , Murmur answered.  
  
“Damned,” Peter corrected.


End file.
